MORTAL COILS (48 page)

Most
intriguing, there was a tiny line drawing of Poseidon on his water-borne
chariot leading the Viking longboat over a stormy sea. There wasn’t much
detail, but the chiseled features and the intense eyes were cast from the same
mold as Uncle Henry’s or Grandmother’s.

Or
Eliot’s.

He
felt a connection to this person . . . to something long ago and far away. For
a heartbeat, Eliot believed there really had been gods and goddesses and that
their blood, no matter how diluted, ran through him now.

He
delved deeper through the book, searching for more.

What
would it mean to be a part of this family? He was no longer sure. But he was
sure he could be a lot more than a pawn.

And
what about his father’s side of the family?

As
if summoned, he turned the page to a woodcut of the devil, tormenting medieval
peasants with fire and pitchfork.

The
image repulsed Eliot. He couldn’t be related to anything like this. And yet he
found his fingertip tracing the bat wings, horns, and barbed tail . . .
fascinated by this being’s obvious power.

He
bet no one had ever called the devil a “good little boy.”

37.
Poseidon and Odin both appear after a Viking band made an appropriate
sacrifice. The gods were drunk and Odin appears to pass out, inebriated, but
Poseidon continues with the group. This is the first tale from the late
classical period in which two gods from different pantheons appear together.
From handwritten notes in the Beezle edition of Mythica Improbiba known as “The
War Song of Poseidon and Yorik the Bloodied Beard.” Father Sildas Pious,
Mythica Improbiba (translated version), c. thirteenth century.

35

JULIE’S
SONG

Eliot
inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of freshly pulped carrots, oranges, and
clove cigarettes in the Pink Rabbit coffee and juice café.

He
tried to read the menu, but couldn’t see the fine print. He’d strained his eyes
last night scanning the nearly microscopic writing of “The Lost Maiden’s Tale”
in Mythica Improbiba.38

His
blurry vision hadn’t got any better that morning—nor at breakfast, nor on the
walk to Ringo’s, nor during the five minutes at work before Julie dragged him across
the street for their coffee break.

He
blinked and looked up at Julie, sitting across from him.

Sunlight
streamed into the Pink Rabbit from skylights overhead and made her blond hair a
halo of gold. The light also made her blue cotton summer dress enticingly
translucent.

“What
are you looking at?” Julie asked.

Eliot
glanced away. “Just the stage,” he lied, and nodded to the center of the room.
“Must have been a big party last night.”

The
Rabbit hosted musicians every Friday night—strictly a local affair

38.
The tiny print of this passage in the Beezle edition of Mythica Improbiba is
obscured by a stain of ancient origins. A few words are revealed with
ultraviolet light—enough to piece together “The Lost Maiden’s Tale,” in which
the trickster god Loki Laufeyjarson and Saint Vladimir Sviatoslavovich the
Great both try to win the love of the young girl. The amalgam of pagan and
Christian mythologies was dubbed (ironically) the “Chimera Heresy” by the Papal
Inquisition of 1230. It was punishable, if the author recanted his sin, by
wearing a yellow cross for life. If the author failed to recant his sin, he was
burned at the stake with all copies of his works. Gods of the First and
Twenty-first Century, Volume 5: Core Myths (Part 2), 8th ed. (Zypheron Press
Ltd.).

for
the resident artists and hippies and connoisseurs of homebrewed ales. Onstage
were tribal drums and a pair of guitars. The bartender sat there tuning one. He
strummed a chord and Eliot noted the way he held it, how it was similar and
different to how he held his violin. The man then set the guitar down and went
back to work.

Julie
turned to look at the stage, and as she did, Eliot admired the lines of her
neck and slender shoulders. She was like a Michelangelo statue: perfect
proportions and flawlessly smooth. He imagined running a hand over her skin,
and his pulse quickened.

Their
waitress came, blocking the sunlight and startling Eliot.

“Sunrise
Butter, please,” Eliot said.

This
was a mix of honey, ginger, carrot and orange juices, and it tasted great . . .
but it was a kid’s drink. Nowhere near sophisticated enough for someone on a
coffee break with the most beautiful girl in Del Sombra. Why was he always
doing the most uncool thing?

Julie
didn’t seem to notice. She glanced at the back of her menu at the selection of
wines and beers. “Got any of the White Rabbit Ale left?”

Their
waitress pursed her lips and crossed her arms, not even bothering to ask for
ID.

“Just
kidding.” Julie flashed her hundred-watt smile and the waitress relaxed a
notch. “Coffee, please. The Sumatra, if you don’t mind, miss.”

Eliot
should have thought of that: coffee on a coffee break.

“So
tell me about yourself, Mr. Post.” Julie leaned invitingly forward.

What
could he say? Everything about his life sounded crazy.

Well,
Julie, I’ve spent my entire life sequestered with my grandmother and
great-grandmother, and, oh, by the way, part of my family thinks they are—and
might actually be—gods and goddesses. My father’s side of the family, however,
could be fallen angels. The really odd thing is that my sister and I are in the
middle of heroic trials trying to figure out which side of the family we belong
with, or if we belong with anyone at all . . . alive.

“My
life is just full of the normal dull things,” he said. “You know: homework,
more household rules than air molecules, and any free time I might have
had—until recently—was spent washing dishes.”

She
snorted. “Sounds like my life. Only throw in a few dysfunctional brothers and a
stepmother from hell.”

All
traces of her smile faded and she rubbed one arm.

Even
Eliot, who wasn’t good with people, could tell that she had exposed something
real, and very wrong, in her life. He wanted to ask about her family and if
there was anything he could do to help. That seemed stupid, though. Why should
she trust him? She hardly knew him.

But
maybe she needed his help, so badly that she was willing to reach out to a
stranger.

If
only he could talk to her like a real person, instead of wondering what was the
right thing to say, or how to say it, or worrying so much about sounding like a
dork.

“You
can tell me,” he whispered. “Anything. Really. I’m a good listener.”

Her
smile returned, this time used as a shield to ward off any awkward questions.
Her lips trembled. “I just wish . . . ” Her hand moved forward a little as if
she were going to reach across the table, but she hesitated, then withdrew the
unsure gesture.

Eliot
didn’t know what to say to get her to trust him. What could he do? Quote some
fact from an encyclopedia? Or dazzle her with his obscure medical vocabulary?

But
there was another way to communicate. It was right in front of him: the
just-tuned guitar on the stage.

“I
want to do something for you. Give me a second?”

Julie
looked around, following his gaze, confused as if she were missing a joke.
“Sure, what?”

“Just
wait.”

Eliot
got up and marched onto the stage before he lost his nerve. This was like “The
Lost Maiden’s Tale”—or something he might do in one of his daydreams: win the
heart of a lovely girl with a serenade.

Only
this was real.

He
was suddenly so nervous that he’d look like an idiot, he felt like throwing up.
But he wasn’t about to back down now; that’s not how you won the hand and heart
of a young lady . . . at least, in all the books he’d ever read.

He
sat on the stool and picked up the guitar. He wanted to lay it flat like his
violin, but resisted that instinct and instead rested it upright in his lap,
holding the neck as he’d seen the bartender do.

He
strummed the steel strings, slow and evenly.

The
notes, however, warbled and slipped out of his control as if they were
squirming things.

The
Rabbit’s patrons glanced up. The bartender and waitress scowled at him. Julie’s
face crinkled and she looked like someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

Eliot
flushed. Perspiration beaded on his neck and hands. Great. Sweaty palms. That’d
just make the strings harder to control. He looked at his fingers, and suddenly
his blurry vision snapped into focus.

He
could do this . . . as he had with the violin.

But
he had seen Louis play entire songs on Lady Dawn before he tried to copy him;
he’d only seen the bartender strum a few chords with this instrument.

Eliot
molded his fingers around the fret and thumbed once more over the strings. The
sound was no better—exactly like someone playing a guitar for the first time.

He
felt the customers’ annoyance heat about him; it made his skin prickle. In his
peripheral vision he saw the bartender wad his dish towel and stride toward
him. Eliot didn’t look up, but he knew Julie was wondering why she’d bothered
with such a weird little kid in the first place . . . probably sneaking out of
the place right now.

His
fingers were wooden, his muscles jelly, his mind blank. How had he ever played
music? Had he ever really played . . . or was it some sort of daydream?

No.
He had. He could. He would.

Eliot
was alone. No stage, no Pink Rabbit café, just him and the guitar, and
somewhere in the dark a different audience waited and listened and trembled
with anticipation. The stars and shadows watched him.

The
universe held its breath.

One
good note. Just one. A start. That’s all he needed.

His
index finger pinned a string and his thumb flicked.

The
sound was pure and perfect and all his. It rolled through the dark, bounded and
rebounded, echoing back to him. Eliot sensed space and time and the vast empty
corridors of fate that stretched in all directions from where he sat in the
center.

He
strung more notes together, flowing smooth and effortless. It was the first
song he had learned, the nursery rhyme, “Mortal’s Coil.”

In
his imagination a choir of children sang along:

   
Spinning faster round the pole. Soon too old from chasing gold.

   
Young hands wrinkle, hearts to stone. Dust to dust and ashes

   
cold.

Eliot’s
hands moved faster, formed chords, improvised, and layered in textures. The
music vibrated through him and the wooden stage and out to the audience.

He
opened his eyes and looked up.

The
bartender stood at the edge of the stage, frozen, mouth agape. Every customer
faced him, rapt.

Julie
stared wide-eyed.

He
added a phrase as he thought of her. The notes turned lighter and sounded like
her lilting Southern accent. The sunlight streaming through the skylights
tinged pink and warmed.

Eliot
eyes locked with Julie’s.

Her
entire being opened to him, and he read her as easily as he had the musical
notes in Mythica Improbiba. She was honey-sweet and perfect . . . but that was
just the surface layer; deeper, there was more: darkness and sadness and pain.